


Recent Advances in Haptic Technology

by Catstackular



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Remote Control Hand Jobs, Shiro's Season 7 Arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 13:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catstackular/pseuds/Catstackular
Summary: "It's an upgrade. Haptic feedback. It feels."





	Recent Advances in Haptic Technology

The first time Shiro brings it up, Keith thinks he's joking and laughs at him. Then Shiro blushes and smiles and Keith realizes he'd been serious, which makes him feel both like an ass and unexpectedly scandalized. 

"What would you do without it?" Keith asks. "It's your arm."

Shiro shrugs. "It's just an arm. I've managed before and for much lesser reasons than--" He unthinkingly begins a gesture with said arm, then blushes harder and drops it. Keith darts a glance at Shiro's hand, new, improved, irrationally large in comparison to Shiro's flesh and blood hand. Light shines off the silver bumps of the knuckles. He swallows.

"It'd just be elaborate jerking off." He sounds nearly normal. "You can't feel it and I'm not so--"

"Yes, I can." Shiro holds up his metal hand and flexes his fingers. He looks at Keith, smiling crookedly with color still bright on his cheeks. "It's an upgrade. Haptic feedback. It feels." Leaning over, he gently drags his thumb along the line of Keith's jaw. "I feel."

"Oh." Keith's voice raises an octave. "I did not know that."

Shiro laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle and Keith feels -- something. "It's useful," Shiro says. "Not just for that."

**

Two weeks later, Keith wakes up alone and grudgingly rolls out of bed. He's not paying attention, which is why he doesn't notice Shiro's fucking arm flopped on the bedside table until he smacks a thigh into it and yelps. He startles the hell out of Kosmo and himself and for a bleary ten seconds can't fathom how Shiro could just casually forgot his arm like he would his keys.

Halfway through a text, he remembers and almost drops his phone on Kosmo's head as he butts at Keith in concern. 

"I'm fine," Keith tells him. "It's fine."

It's like his embarrassing garrison fantasies have been scooped out of his brain and dropped into his lap, though even the wildest things he came up with as a cadet never quite got to advanced robotics. He really, _really_ wants to touch it. Instead, he texts Shiro: _You forgot your arm_.

He very quickly gets a return message. _I didn't forget_. Then, a second later, _;)_.

Keith barks out a laugh and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He hasn't changed the sheets, so they smell right, like Shiro. _Thought you had meetings all day_.

The pause is longer. Keith shoves the pillows together and leans back. The glow from Shiro's arm casts a soft bluish light over the room. It's like being underwater and Keith likes it. He hadn't realized the arm itself glowed, not just whatever connected it to the dock in Shiro's shoulder.

 _I do. They're boring, though_. 

Keith raises an eyebrow and murmurs, "Perv," with a crooked smile. _And everyone thinks you're the responsible one._

 _I know exactly how much you respect the garrison._ Which is fair, Keith can concede. _:*_

He looks at the arm -- Shiro's arm, which feels alive, and he realizes that's probably why it seems so disconcerting laying there detached from Shiro. Keith bites his bottom lip and shifts, aware and honestly not all that surprised at the heat beginning to pool in his hips. Shiro is Shiro, there's never been any part of him that Keith wasn't fundamentally undone by. 

Shiro would never demand anything. He would never push for anything. He is self sacrificial to insanity. Keith inhales and exhales for slow, even counts and admits to himself that he wants. 

_Are you in one now?_

_Yes_.

Keith shivers. _See you on the other side_. He tosses his phone to the end of the bed before he can change his mind and without any real idea how to start, rolls onto his side so he can lace his fingers with Shiro's and squeezes. 

It takes a very long moment, long enough for a slightly hysterical laugh about signal range to bubble up in Keith's throat, but then Shiro squeezes back. The pure mechanical strength behind the gesture draws a soft hummed noise from Keith. His hand looks so stupidly small. Each of Shiro's fingers is the size of -- is so big.

And it's not that Keith hasn't touched and been touched. Lance isn't completely unfair when he jokes under his breath about them being attached at the hip and other things at that general level. But he's tried not to focus on the arm, because everyone else does. It is beautiful, though, Keith thinks. Not just for being Shiro's, but on its own. 

Down the bed he hears his phone chime. "Message to Shiro," he says. "Be patient. Send." 

It's a new and decidedly robotic take on phone sex. Keith licks his lips and experimentally flexes his hips. The fabric of his boxers draws a little tighter on his cock and a spark of heat shoots up his spine. Apparently, he actually really wants this. Go figure.

He pulls Shiro's arm toward him -- he doesn't realize he's half expecting it to thud to the floor and yank him down with it until it just glides off the bedside table -- and presses a light kiss to the knuckle of Shiro's thumb. His phone dings again, three times in rapid succession. Shiro's always been a little weak for that kind of small affection. 

Keith returns to his back, propped up enough so he can see down the length of his body. He releases Shiro's hand and flattens Shiro's cool, mental palm over his chest. "Message to Shiro. I can't talk right now. I'm busy. Someone's feeling me up. Send." He uses the pause to shove his underwear down and kick them away, settling his hands into the blankets by his sides. 

There aren't nails, exactly, just a blunted edge where the top of the fingers begins to arc down to the bottoms. Shiro scratches a slow line down Keith's chest anyway and the coolness is a shocking, embarrassing sensation. Different but and just as good for Keith as the sting of fingernails. He arches into it, huffs out a chuckle. Shiro is only as unflappable as Keith chooses not to get under his skin. Mostly, Keith doesn't want to. Mostly. 

He gropes downward and wraps his hand around Shiro's metal wrist as best he can. At the joint, Keith's aware of a very thin buzz from the inner works of the arm. Space turned out to have more magic than mechanics and the physicality of that whir is -- he groans, digging his fingers into ungiving metal and wondering how Shiro feels that. Are nonexistent bones grinding in his nervous system? Does he like being held down as much as Keith does? 

Keith really didn't expect this _much_. 

Maybe in response to Keith's grip or maybe just because Shiro's patience doesn't vanish as soon as he's naked, he stops below Keith's belly button and presses his palm flat and reassuring to the plane of skin between Keith's hip bones. His thumb strokes an arc back and forth, soothing and very sweet and not doing anything. Keith bucks impatiently.

"Message to Shiro. I did not tell you to stop, so don't stop. Fuck--" That slips out before he can stop it. "Send message."

He wants to know what Shiro looks like in the moment. Shiro's good at looking intent and focused even at the most mind numbingly boring bureaucracy, but maybe his cheeks are starting to color and maybe there's a little sweat dampening his temples. Keith can _see_ it.

Over the years, Keith has spent a lot of time thinking about Shiro. When they first started this thing they're doing, he had half a second of gut-deep fear that the reality wouldn't manage to live up to all the things he'd ever fantasized. That hasn't happened, of course, but he hasn't shaken fantasizing about Shiro. Being able to make his fantasies come true just makes it better.

"Come on," Keith grits out. "Come on, don't fucking tease."

Maybe Shiro hears that through a million miles of space or maybe his brand new haptic feedback gives him the sensation of Keith's impatient hips. Either way, at last, Shiro's hand begins to skim down, whirring at a slightly different frequency.

 

Keith settles his arms down by his sides again, purposefully, ready to let Shiro take full control.

It's clumsy, of course, because Shiro's sitting in a garrison meeting, keeping a straight face, blind to what he's doing. He's irritatingly careful as he feels out the thatch of Keith's pubic hair. Shiro likes to press his nose there when he sucks Keith off and inhale. That compilation of memories -- Shiro's eyes sharp with want, Shiro smiling with the corners of his mouth red, Shiro's hummed bliss -- collides with the immediate sensation of Shiro's hand tugging at the hair and Keith grunts as his hard cock bobs. 

Keith starts to think of a 'by the short and curlies' joke to send to Shiro that might make him laugh and have to explain himself. Shiro's fingers delicately find his cock and everything inside Keith's head turns to sparks--no time for jokes. 

Somehow, he never noticed the slight vibration from Shiro's fingers when they move. Or maybe it's not always there and Shiro's new arm has a whole host of features he's waiting to break out. Keith's fucking babbling in his own head, which is insane, but the achingly light touch becomes so much more with that _fucking_ buzz. 

"Shiro, Shiro." Keith realizes he's chanting as he digs his heels into the mattress, fists clenched. 

Shiro's fingers go down the length of his cock and over the head, not smooth or slick. Keith cries out at that. It rides the line of too much, sending heat spiralling up his spine. Keith knows Shiro inside and out, but Shiro knows him too. He knows the things that break Keith apart and being seen is so -- much. 

There's an obvious destination to the route Shiro's taking and Keith still twists and moans when Shiro wraps his palm around Keith's balls. Keith forces his eyes open and husks out half-hysterical laughter at the sight. 

It's funny, objectively, to watch a glowing, disembodied alien arm get intimate and tender with your junk. But he can also imagine Shiro there, kneeling between his legs with sweat sheened on his chest, looking up at Keith with -- you know. Happiness. Appreciation, maybe. Want. 

This isn't something Keith's conjured up from the depths of his own loneliness and belief that he was never going to get what he wanted. This is Shiro's arm and Shiro can feel everything that he's doing. 

Shiro squeezes. Keith almost lost his nerve admitting he liked that and he can remember the sound of Shiro's sharp inhale and his whispered, "I want to make you feel good." 

Distance has never really mattered, but now it's actually not important. They don't have to wait for the world to align. That makes something bloom in Keith's chest that he can't put a name to. 

"Message -- message to Sh-Shiro. Don't stop. Please. Please don't stop. Send."

Shiro's palm surges upward, pinning Keith's cock between belly and hand. Everything's so slick, and it's probably just sweat but maybe--oh fuck Shiro's fingers are buzzing again, first two fingers split open, pinning Keith's cock to his belly and sliding up and down. 

Keith rocks into it--relief, sweet sweet relief and pleasure strong enough to make his eyes cross and his hands fist in the blankets--and Shiro's hand retreats, clumsy but a definite retreat even if his fingers are still buzzing, still pinning Keith's cock down and sliding up and down. Shiro doesn't intend for Keith to be able to add more pressure if he wants.

There are maybe .2 seconds where Keith starts to wonder what Shiro wants, but then Shiro rewards Keith for letting his hips flop back down against the bed with real pressure, buzzing intensifying. "Oh, _fuck_ ," Keith groans. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

This is so basic. This is post-mission, sweat and blood grinding into each other before they can hit the showers need and it rockets through Keith like -- like -- like a lion flung at the Galra. It's an embarrassing metaphor and he'll care about that later, because he can't in this moment. He rolls his hips frantically, sliding on the sweat from his own skin in time to the pulse of Shiro's hand. 

Shiro's palm is so big and hard, big enough to hold Keith down when gravity and reality stop working, and Shiro left a fucking piece of himself behind so he could feel Keith a million miles away-- 

Keith comes with a guttural noise, bending in on himself as he scrambles to wrap his hands around Shiro's forearm. 

**

It takes Keith a moment to gather the pieces of himself together enough to realize his phone isn't dinging, it's ringing. He scoops it up with uncoordinated fingers and assumes it's Shiro as he stabs at it to answer. "Shiro?"

"I need." Shiro's voice is _wrecked_ and that's enough to snap some of Keith back into himself. "I need to see--"

Shiro is in uniform, eyes bright, with spots of color high on his cheeks. The camera shakes for several dizzying seconds, then stills as Shiro sets it down. Keith watches him pop the snap on his pants and shove his hand down them, staring at his phone -- no, not his phone. At Keith.

"Keith--" he gasps, eyes going unfocused. 

"Shiro," Keith says. His voice is a rasp. "Shiro."

Shiro's knees buckle and his hand on the bed clenches into a fist that Keith can grope out and touch.

**Author's Note:**

> I should be able to tag Shiro's arm as a character!


End file.
